The New Boy
by BoundInSkin
Summary: It's a cool, moonlit night, and Alfred F Jones is listening to his new roommate cry. After a few hours of sobbing, he summons up the courage to talk to him. Little does he know that this boy will change his life forever... Short USUK story, summary sucks
1. Tears

**Hello everyone! This is a short multi-chapter story set in a boarding school AU. It's pretty obvious, but the pairing is USUK. I apologise for any spelling and grammar mistakes, for over-use of cheesy cliches, and for general OOCness. Thankyou so much for reading, and please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

The new boy was crying. Alfred had woken from a slightly odd dream involving a talking cucumber to the sound of pained, tearful sobbing. At first, he had wondered whether he should try to comfort him. Memories of his first night here, almost five years ago, swam to the front of his mind, and he remembered how alone he had felt. As if no-one in the world cared about him. How that feeling had torn him apart, and he had prayed for someone to rescue him.

But as the seconds ticked by, Alfred also remembered how, when he'd come into the room from his lessons earlier that day, the new boy had already been curled up under his duvet, hostile and unapproachable. So instead he lay in his warm bed, watching shadows dancing across the window and listening to the boy's unbridled crying.

It was 2:36, which meant Alfred had been awake for approximately 40 minutes. The lump in the covers of the other bed was still sobbing, and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Alfred rolled over and watched the mound shiver and quake. Soft silver moonlight was pouring in through the window between the two beds, and the room was a pale grey colour.

He thought about how ironic it was that he was lying awake tonight, on one of the few nights he'd actually been able to get off to sleep. Insomnia had plagued him for so long that the darkened room was a familiar sight. The boy who'd shared the bedroom until a few days ago, Ludwig, snored like a hippopotamus, which in a weird way Alfred found he missed. He smiled softly to himself. When Ludwig had been here, he'd found the boy stern and haughty, but now he was gone Alfred remembered him fondly. It was strange.

At 2:58 he found himself slipping his ankles out from under the duvet and placing his feet upon the floor. It was a cold November night, and the cool air bit at his legs, but Alfred persevered. He stood up, ignoring the headrush, and tentatively took a couple of steps towards the other bed, where the stranger was still crying relentlessly. As he passed the window he glanced out at the wide, empty stretch of playing field and the distant shape of the gamekeepers house beyond.

He came to a halt a few centimetres away from the bed, suddenly nervous. What if the boy wanted to be left alone? What if he made such a bad impression that they could never be friends? Alfred's fingers played with the hem of the T-shirt he wore to bed as he contemplated his decision. Eventually, after what could have been a few seconds or a few hours, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Are you ok?" he asked. His voice cut through the silence like a knife. The lump under the quivers seemed to pause, and there were a few blubbering noises. Alfred imagined the boy trying to pull himself together, and felt suddenly guilty. "I'm Alfred F Jones," he continued, after a pause as empty as a vacuum, "Um- I share this room with you."

There was no reply, save for a small sniffling noise. It reminded Alfred forcibly of a wounded animal. "I- are you homesick?" poured out of his mouth like syrup. He regretted it instantly. Of course the kid was homesick, any idiot could see that much. An urge to rush back to his warm bed and bury his head under the covers ran through Alfred's body. But as he turned to go, the lump shifted and moved, and a face appeared.

The boy's eyes were wide and bloodshot in the darkened room. His hair, sticking up in every direction, was fairly short and rather damp. He had a rounded nose and a full mouth, and his expression was strangely resigned. The moonlight meant that it was impossible for Alfred to discern any colours, but he could tell the boy's skin was fairly pale. He looked young, and hesitant, and frightened.

Alfred wanted to reach out and hug him, anything to smooth out those delicate lines crinkling his forehead, anything to soothe his swollen eyes. But thankfully, he realised before he did so that it would completely freak the kid out. "I'm Arthur," the boy said very quietly.

For a few seconds they remained in that position: Alfred, shivering in his pyjamas, staring at the boy wrapped in his duvet, who watched him in turn with nervous eyes. Then Alfred smiled. "It's nice to meet you," he said, his middle class background seeping through and forcing his manners. The boy, Arthur, glanced at the hand being offered to him, then back at Alfred's face.

He blushed self-consciously, gave an embarrassed smile, and withdrew it. "The boy who was here before was a dick," Alfred blurted out. Arthur seemed to study him for an incredibly long time. Then, thank God, he smiled.

"Good," he replied simply. Alfred's eyes widened in surprise, then he frowned slightly. What on earth did he mean by that? "Good that I didn't like him?" he asked, puzzled. Arthur shrugged minutely. "Good that I don't have anything to live up to," he replied somewhat cryptically. Alfred laughed in relief, the sound too loud in the moonlight, and Arthur rubbed a hand self-consciously across his eyes.

Alfred suddenly realised with stunning clarity how embarrassed the boy must have been, to be interrupted in his sorrow. "So, er-," he started, anything to distract him from the guilty thoughts circling his head, "Where do you come from?"

And so they talked. Alfred told him about his childhood in London, the majesty of Buckingham Palace and the gritty poverty of the backstreets. He spoke of his three older brothers, two of whom were in the army, the other one in jail for assault. Of his mother, strong and haughty, who loved all her children with a fierce, terrifying passion. Of his heroic father, who had been scarred in more ways than one by his part in the war.

The car crash that had killed him, and the strange emptiness Arthur had felt at the funeral of the man who raised him. The wealthy new step-father he loathed, and his mother's reluctance to interfere as he was sent so far away from everything he had ever known.

"So…" Arthur said eventually, "What's the verdict?" Those words, reminiscent of someone speaking about a jail sentence, sparked another flame of pity in Alfred's chest. He buried it deep down. If there was once thing he'd learnt about Arthur from his story, it was that he was a fighter. He didn't want anyone's pity. "I think," Alfred said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "You're going to change everything." Arthur's eyebrow quirked upwards, revealing his surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged, blushed a little, glanced out of the window. "Well, I don't think this school's ever had a person who doesn't get given five hundred pounds a week from daddy as 'spending money' in it before. Or… or anyone who knows what it's like to go hungry." Arthur's expression was cautious, as if he was trying to decide what to think. "Then I guess you're right," he said eventually, "They're not going to know what's hit them."


	2. Bruises

**Thankyou so much to everyone who's reviewed so far. Someone asked how old they were: I imagined them as around fifteen/sixteen. This chapter is set a few months after the first one, so sorry for the lack of plot development in between. It's really short (but hopefully sweet!) Sorry for any spelling or grammar errors. I hope you enjoy it, and please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

Alfred jogged down the corridor towards his bedroom, trying to remember where he'd left that damn shirt. The coach had been less than pleased when he'd turned up to his PE lesson without his tennis shirt, and had given him a long lecture on the importance of equipment before he'd let him go and get it. Alfred had insisted that he knew exactly where it was in his bedroom.

In fact, he vaguely remembered insisting that it was waiting, freshly cleaned and ironed, on a coat hanger on his doorknob. Actually, he had no idea where it was, but it was more likely to be lying in a crumpled, dirty heap underneath his bed. Fervently hoping he hadn't accidentally thrown the stupid thing away, Alfred pushed open the door, already tugging his school shirt off.

The sight of Arthur, sitting cross-legged on hiss bed, made Alfred stumble to a halt, excruciatingly aware of his now-bare chest. But before he could stutter out an apology, Arthur's face shocked him into silence. A fresh, blue-black bruise spread over his right eye, and his lip was split. Even more surprisingly, he was grinning. "Hey," he said casually, lifting his head from the book open on his lap.

"What the hell happened to you?" Alfred asked, his partial nudity forgotten as he crossed to where his best friend was sitting. Arthur shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but he couldn't hide his enormous smile. "You should see the other bugger," he said. Alfred had a bad feeling he wasn't joking.

"Who did this?" Alfred demanded. He was a mere centimetre from Arthur now, as he leaned over to gently touch the bruised skin around his friend's eye. Arthur only winced slightly, but it was enough for Leo to recoil as if he'd been burnt. Anger bubbled inside him like flames. Whoever hurt Arthur was going to pay.

"It was that French bastard, Bonnefoy," Arthur admitted, the grin slipping from his face to reveal an exhausted expression. Alfred's hands curled themselves into involuntary fists. "Dickhead," he muttered. Arthur shrugged, still trying to put on a brave face. "It's not all bad," he said, "Mr Turner told me to go and rest, so I'm missing the math test."

Alfred shook his head, the anger coursing through his veins. How dare Francis Bonnefoy fucking touch his friend? "I'm going to kill him," he muttered to himself. Arthur mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "Well, I did sort of pull his hair… and kick him…" Alfred ignored him. "God, you're a mess." Arthur snorted, "Thanks a bunch." Alfred leant down and gently held his friend's head between his hands, his irrational concern overriding all rational thought processes. "Did you go and see the nurse? Let me have a look."

He peered carefully at the sore and broken skin on the boy's face. He'd never noticed how green Arthur's eyes were before…. Without quite knowing why, he smoothed back a soft piece of thick, straw-coloured hair from his friend's forehead. They were so close he could hear Arthur's breathing, and it seemed to be speeding up. His friend's eyes travelled down from his face to his still-bare chest. And before Alfred could register what was happening, a pair of soft, broken lips were pressed against his own.

Alfred was paralysed in shock. Arthur- Arthur was kissing him. The pressure on his lips increased a little, and he felt a hand come to rest on the back of his head. Alfred let out a strangled cry and stumbled backwards, tripping over something on the floor as he did so. He grabbed it, realised a second later that it was the damned tennis shirt, and stared at Arthur's helpless, stunned expression.

Alfred gabbled, "I've got to go," and ran out of the room.


	3. Confrontations

**Bully!Francis makes his first appearance in this chapter. I have to warn you, he's incredibly out of character, as is Alfred (who is a little cowardly). Once again, I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes. Please, please, please review, even if it's just a couple of words. Your opinions really do mean a lot to me. Thankyou for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

That evening, Alfred was painfully aware of his roommate's absence at dinner, of the empty seat beside him, the untouched plate of food, and the two black eyes Francis Bonnefoy was sporting. He picked listlessly at his pasta, barely tasting the food, and carefully deflected any attempts at conversation.

After half an hour or so, when most of the pupils had drifted away to the common room to watch TV or battle with their chemistry homework, he was only halfway through the plate. Can I just tip it in the bin? Alfred thought to himself, Or will the scary dinner lady notice?

Luckily, (or unluckily, depending on whether you like sneering Frenchmen who beat up your best friend or not) a tap on the shoulder distracted him from his musings.

Francis Bonnefoy was shuffling from foot to foot behind Alfred, arms folded and looking like an effeminate version of the villain in some sixties cop show. Alfred noticed with some satisfaction that he was limping, and there was a vicious looking scratch on his neck. Serves you right, he thought bitterly, the image of Arthur's battered face swimming into his mind. "Where's your friend?" Francis sneered, his blue eyes cold and hard. Alfred shrugged, trying desperately to look as innocent and unassuming as possible.

He was lanky and uncoordinated, not very good at fighting. Unlike Arthur who despite his small stature (Alfred could see his ribs when he had his shirt off) fought like an angry cat. Oh God. Now he was thinking about Arthur shirtless, which was definitely not the mental image he wanted at that moment in time. Alfred took a huge mouthful of pasta to distract himself and ending up choking.

When he finished avoiding asphyxiation, Alfred realised Francis Bonnefoy was still standing a little too close for comfort, glaring at him. "Tell your petit roommate," the boy hissed, "I'm going to kill him. No-one insults my hair. Il est mort. Understood?" Alfred was about to nod mutely, like the coward he had always been, but something stopped him. Arthur's poor swollen eyes and defiant expression came into his mind again, and before he knew it he had pushed himself out of his seat. Francis's eyes were about level with his own, and Alfred saw a glimpse of something similar to fear in them, behind the arrogance and the bravado.

"You're pathetic," the words had slipped out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying, "You're a stupid little coward who sexually harasses people too weak to defend themselves, because you know that no one will ever truly love you. But you know what? You're not powerful. You're no one. And if you so much as touch Arthur again… you're going to regret it."

There was silence. A hush had fallen over the canteen, the sound of one hundred jaws dropping as the goofy, weedy kid that nobody really noticed put the bully in his place. Alfred found himself blinking rapidly as he tried desperately to figure out why he'd done that. Francis's expression was somewhere between shock and horror.

Then he pulled himself together, nervously licked his dry lips and attempted a sneer, though it was more like a whine. Alfred watched with some sense of satisfaction as the boy turned and limped away from him. Justice felt good.

He sat back down with somewhat shaky legs and stared again at the plate of spaghetti (or, as it was starting to look like, red worms). There was no way that the fluttering sensation in his stomach would ever allow him to eat that. Instead, he stood up and made his way over to the bin, where the dinner lady (who didn't seem so terrifying after all) was waiting.

As Alfred scooped the remains of his food into the waste, something compelled him to look up at the door. Arthur was standing there, looking small and dishevelled, his clear green gaze flicking from Francis Bonnefoy to Alfred himself. Their eyes met for a second, and Alfred thought he saw pride reflecting back at him. Then Arthur turned and fled back upstairs, and Alfred was left with a half-empty plate and an irrational, clawing sense of guilt.


	4. Revelations

**Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed or subscribed to this story. It means so much to me. Here's the penultimate chapter, sorry it's so short!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

Alfred stood outside the door to his bedroom, trying to decide whether the prospect of facing Arthur outweighed the fact that it was half past ten and if he didn't go inside he'd be facing detentions for a week. Perhaps his roommate would be asleep by now? It was a thin string of hope, but it was enough to make Alfred tentatively reach out and turn the doorknob. Well, he thought glumly, here goes nothing.

Arthur wasn't asleep, of course, because that would just be too damn easy. Or so Alfred thought, as he stepped inside the room and found his feet frozen to the carpet. The other boy was lying on his bed, still fully clothed, facing the wall. It was not the sort of position that said, "Hey, roomie! Let's have a fun chat, then go to sleep."

It was, in fact, more the sort of position that said, "Fuck off, I hate you." Alfred sighed and walked over to his own bed as quietly as possible. He sat down, facing away from Arthur's back, and eased off his school shoes. Then an unmistakable voice asked him, somewhat bitterly, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Alfred swallowed nervously and turned around to face his roommate. The other boy was sitting cross-legged, his arms folded, his expression unreadable. The bruise around his eye had matured to a deep purple shade, almost black, that made Alfred feel vaguely nauseous. "I- what do you mean?" he stuttered.

The words hung in the air, scared and cowardly. Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. "I kissed you," the boy said, "And you ran away. Then, I saw you laying into the guy who beat me up. And then you hide in the common room for four hours. And you're not even going to talk about it?"

There was too much emotion in Arthur's voice. It was too raw, too broken, too accusatory. Alfred couldn't stand to look at him, so he let his gaze drop to the blue tufts of the carpet. "I- There's nothing to talk about," he mumbled. Arthur snorted, a sound full of derision and scorn. "Well, that's just about the biggest lie of the fucking century," he muttered.

When Alfred finally forced himself to glance up at his roommate's face, the first thing he noticed was the sadness. Arthur's expression was just heart-breakingly… unhappy. There was really no other way to describe it.

"I had a go at Bonnefoy because he deserved it," Alfred gabbled, "He- he's a bastard. He hurt you, and that made me really angry. Angrier than- angrier than I've ever been. So… yeah. That's… that's why." When the words had finally tumbled, awkward and unsure, from his mouth, his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Arthur was staring at him with an almost pitiful expression. "I'm going to sleep," the younger boy finally sighed, and reached up to turn out the light.

Alfred found himself, once again, lying awake in bed. Except this time, it was for a completely different reason. Inside his head, a whirlwind of thoughts was swirling around, refusing to be quietened. Why had Arthur kissed him? Why had he run away? Did- did he enjoy it? Should he have stood up to Bonnefoy? Was- was he gay?

"I didn't run away because I was disgusted," Alfred whispered into the darkness, "Or because I was angry." It was so much easier to talk to Arthur when he was asleep than when he was awake, glaring at him with those poor bruised eyes. "I ran away because I was scared. I- I was so… unsure.

But now… I realise that I've probably ruined everything. That there will probably be no next time. But if there was… I wouldn't run away again." Unseen in the darkness, curled into a ball of duvet, Arthur smiled.


	5. Bliss

**Thankyou so much to everyone who has reviewed or subscribed to this story, it's made me very happy. This is the final chapter (sob)! Please review and let me know what you thought. I hope you enjoy it! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

Usually on a Saturday, Alfred dragged himself out of bed at around eleven-o clock. Yet today, his faithful Captain America clock informed him that it was only half past six. So why the hell wasn't he drifting through dreamland on a boat made of clouds? Oh yes, because of the incredibly annoying, excruciatingly loud alarm currently ringing through his head. Alfred stumbled out of bed and flailed his arms around wildly, searching for the source of the racket.

His bleary eyes landed on Arthur's alarm clock. Bingo. After a few minutes of fumbling, he managed to get the stupid thing to shut up. Only then did he notice that his roommate's bed was neatly made, and there was no sign of the boy himself. Nothing, in fact, but an orange post it note stuck to his pillow. Scribbled on it, in Arthur's handwriting, was a message, "Go to the old boat house."

The old boathouse was a large wooden shed about half a mile along the lake away from the school, now disused in favour of the modern boathouse, which was warmer, closer, and less prone to leakage. So Alfred found himself trudging through seemingly endless overgrown grass in pitch darkness, wrapped in his thickest coat and a pair of wellington boots.

Why had his friend chosen such an obscure meeting point? And why so goddamn early? When the boathouse eventually loomed into view, Alfred felt an immense rush of relief. He pushed open the rotting wooden door and stumbled inside.

It had been a couple of years since he'd been in, and the most obvious change was the lack of front wall. The wood must have rotted and been cleared away, because now there was just a gaping hole, showing the lake in all it's early morning splendour. And, Alfred realised somewhat belatedly, the sight was beautiful.

The soft dawn light reflected off the calm water, making it shimmer like a diamond. There were two swans, elegant and pure, drifting along without a care in the world. And finally, there was Arthur, sitting on the riverbank with his feet dangling in the water.

Alfred paused, suddenly unsure. As if sensing his presence, Arthur turned his head, and smiled brilliantly. The golden light illuminated his face, making even the bruises seem somehow angelic. Alfred drifted towards his friend and silently sat down beside him.

Arthur lifted one pale foot out of the water and shook it slightly, sending a spray of droplets out that shattered the stillness of the water. Then he leant towards Alfred and softly pressed his lips against the older boy's.

It was a gentler, calmer kiss than the first one had been. And this time, Alfred didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist, and realised that his friend tasted of honey and peppermint. After a few endless moments, Arthur pulled away.

He gave a small, peaceful smile and quietly said, "There's always a next time."


End file.
